


Reminiscence

by pocketfulofposies



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Feels, Awkward First Times, Banter, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd Needs a Hug, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Purple Prose, Rough Kissing, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 10:30:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketfulofposies/pseuds/pocketfulofposies
Summary: "She was a hollowed-out vessel for a god, him for ghosts of the past. It was never in the cards for either of them to be whole, he knew, but he was sure that if they were each a collection of shards, their pieces must have come from the same broken thing. What was lost could never be fully recovered, but they were closer to complete when they were together."A retelling of the progression of Byleth and Dimitri's relationship from Dimitri's perspective, sprinkled throughout a good old-fashioned smut scene.  I just wanted to add a little more subtext and flesh it all out.





	Reminiscence

**Author's Note:**

> Bolded text is lifted from in-game. It's a nonlinear, emotionally horny, and unfocused ramble of a fic, and I am very sorry.

Dimitri pulled Byleth down onto his lap and kissed her, if it could even be called a kiss. He leaned in so slowly, slow enough that she could retreat if she so pleased, and brushed his lips against hers, leaving a gentle trail of pecks along the corner of her mouth to her jawline. Both their lips were dry and chapped from the frigid air of the Holy Kingdom, but it didn't matter because in that moment he could taste something other than blood and smoke in his mouth for the first time in almost ten years. Mint. Traces of those sweet baked treats she always offered him over tea. A new addiction.

His rough, calloused fingers drifted upwards, cupping her face. His left hand was numb and tingling from the shoulder wound--El's parting gift--but he didn't want to think about her anymore, not ever again. The only face he thought it best to forget.

When Byleth pulled back to breathe, his lips immediately sought her neck because he wasn't strong enough to hold her gaze. Even now, looking into those eyes, to him, felt like getting lost at sea. The sea was depthless and chilling, it had seen more death and taken more life than most could fathom, but somehow it was beautiful still, beautiful even when it showed him his own reflection. He didn't look like a bloodthirsty monster or some vile, murderous fiend when reflected in her eyes--he just looked like one sad, lonely man. He remembered when she had first come to the monastery how much those eyes had unnerved him. He had told her as much, ashamed as he was of it now. It had taken him so long to figure out why, that in those eyes, he saw everything he was and all that he feared becoming. Back then, he was a mask without a face, but she was what remained when those pretenses were cast aside. Something not quite whole. Really, neither of them were. She was a hollowed-out vessel for a god, him for ghosts of the past. It was never in the cards for either of them to be whole, he knew, but he was sure that if they were each a collection of shards, their pieces must have come from the same broken thing. What was lost could never be fully recovered, but they were closer to complete when they were together.

His teeth traveled downwards to the skin exposed by her garment's chest window, biting gently before sucking the patch of silky skin hard. She exhaled a soft moan right next to his ear.

"Dimitri..." she said, and he took no small amount of pride in the way her voice so uncharacteristically wavered when it carried his name. The other students at the monastery had always remarked how "dead and unfeeling" she seemed, but he had never cared for that comparison. The dead were vengeful. They were angry. They bled and they screamed and they wept for themselves and they hungered for revenge, demanded justice, consumed those they left behind. The moment's leading up to one's death laid bare their darkest, most visceral truth. Coldness, apathy, dispassion--those were games of the living. He could say with no hesitation just how alive Byleth was, how alive she made him feel, even when pressed against her unbeating heart.

"Byleth," he returned, savoring the syllables of her name on his tongue like honey. He affectionately thumbed over her cheek, drawing her hand to his face. "You're so warm..."

She smiled the ghost of a smile, and only then did he meet her eyes, unsure if they would drown or baptize him, but he welcomed her damnation and salvation just the same. Despite everything, they held some small flicker of tenderness, like a forgotten candle that miraculously survived the night.

"Should we relocate?" she asked flatly, adjusting herself in his lap--brushing against him in such a way that made him sharply inhale.

Dimitri nodded, a little red. "Yes, that would...probably be wise."

Her frankness made it much less awkward than it otherwise would have been. Byleth always knew what to say, what he needed to hear, which ironically was often very little. Talking to her had always been so easy, no matter how much he stumbled for the right words or how painful the things he needed to say were. He remembered when he was at his worst, blinded by his hatred and clamoring for blood, how he so coldly brushed her off time and again, and how she barely reacted. No offense taken, no questioning, no chiding. Thinking of it now, it hurt. She should have screamed at him, called him an animal, fought with him, raised her blade. But she didn't. Her concern had been there still and been so genuine, not full of the overplayed, performative pity nobles would express in the royal courts, hoping to gain his favor. "Are you all right?" she would always ask at just the right time, and he would always lie and say "yes" because there was nothing else he knew how to do. It never convinced her, but his survivor's instincts told him cries for help would get you killed if there was still danger nearby, and when the world is big and confusing and has given you a taste of its darkness, everything feels like danger. "Tea?" she might ask then, and the conversations that followed never ran deeper than idle chatter to fill the air, in which he could volunteer anything he wanted and nothing more was pried out of him. No prompting. No pestering. And somehow that surface-level banter about weapon maintenance or the facilities at the monastery was all he needed in those times. She knew how to make him feel like less of a husk for the belligerent dead and more like a man.

As Byleth rose to her feet, he pushed himself up from the over-cushioned armchair and scooped her into his arms princess-style, quite fittingly, before she fully regained her bearings.

"Heh." That was the closest Byleth would come to a girlish giggle, and Dimitri relished in that, offering a rather awkward chuckle in turn.

Only when she was in his arms did it register just how small she was, or perhaps how large he was. He didn't really know the baseline, he just knew she seemed more intimidating when he wasn't holding her like a doll. She could handle him at his worst, she could peel back his skin with a gaze and see the vitriol swirling deep beneath the surface, unafraid and unimpressed, but on the ground, her head barely reached his shoulders.

He carried her across his chambers, before a jolt of pain shot through his arm, and he unceremoniously dumped her on his bed.

"Ah, love--I'm so sorry--"

But by the time the words escaped his lips, she had already recovered and sat up, reaching out to him. "Should I summon a healer to take another look at your shoulder?"

"No!" he said, a bit too emphatically, resting along the side of the bed. "I'm sorry--no. Truly, it's fine, there's no cause for alarm. I simply forgot myself for a moment. I will be fine, so long as I avoid heavy lifting--"

"I'm heavy?" 

He blinked. "That is not--"

"I am teasing you."

"Now, of all times?" he asked, but he sounded more amused than incredulous. "That is rather mean."

She responded by leaning forward and locking her arms around his neck, pulling him towards her. She placed a gentle kiss on his nose, but it didn't last long before he recaptured her lips.

He leaned over her, a knee planted firmly between her thighs. His heart thrummed, his head was spinning. Even now, none of today felt real, not his confession, nor his proposal, nor her offering that ring to him in turn, that ring much too small for his big hands, certainly not having her in his bed in such a lurid position.

Hurriedly, he began to unbutton the useless collar of her blouse, struggling with the delicate work of the buttons until her hands met his. He wasn't sure whose were trembling at this point, he only knew that he wanted to taste every inch of bared skin.

Had he ever even touched her before today? He hadn't hugged her, hadn't cradled her in his arms. A pat on the shoulder, maybe, a grip of the hand after sparring and after they taught those orphans swordplay, some basic emergency first-aid. Nothing noteworthy. She had taken his hand in hers that one rainy day she stopped him from marching to his death in Enbarr after he lost Rodrigue. That certainly hadn't been very romantic. He wracked his brain, but in actuality, that had truly been it. He hadn't danced with her the night of the festival, even when they ran into each other outside the cathedral.

"**Aren't you going to ask Edelgard to dance?**" she had asked, and he had noted the distinct lack of venom to her words. They were not spoken in jealousy, only observation, and that flippance almost stung.

He had forced a rather awkward laugh, more sheepish than he understood why. "**No. I should think not**." Had he really being eyeing Edelgard so obviously that night? Why? Did he love her? Definitely not. Had he once? Maybe. Hard to say. It was surely more complicated than that. From there, he had rambled off their history, about how she taught him to dance all those years ago, something he had never shared with anyone else before, with the same low, casual tone as always, like it was nothing, like speaking that woman's name didn't make his chest ache even then. He still did not know what prompted him to share all of this that night, like he was admitting the scandalous details of his history with another woman--but he and Byleth had not been lovers at that point, nothing of the sort. Thus, he had owed her no explanation, but he wanted to give one to her all the same, wanted to tear his heart out from his chest and place it in her hands. Maybe she had always had that effect on him.

They had made a wish together that night, as was tradition, but in hindsight, it was not the one he should have made--a wish for nothing to be unjustly taken from anyone again, not a promise to Byleth, as the custom would have been. But he wasn't a man who spoke honeyed words or who knew what women wanted to hear, he was a graceless idiot prince who gave girls daggers as parting gifts instead of flowers.

Looking back now, he got the feeling he should have kissed her then. She would have let him. There had been an uncomfortable moment before they parted that seemed like it needed something soft to fill it, but some part of him knew better because a kiss is always more than a kiss. It would have changed too much, their whole dynamic would have shifted, and her consistency at the time was too integral to keeping him grounded. Not to mention, he had already made one promise that night he might not be able to keep.

He hoped the kisses he showered her with now would compensate. Even knowing all too-well the past was unchanging and firm regardless, he would never stop trying to make up for lost time with her by mapping every inch of her body with puffy, kiss-bruised lips. After five unwelcome years apart and of thinking her dead, of waiting for her to join the legions of ghosts hovering around him and to place the burden of bygone suffering on his weary, weary shoulders, he would not take a second for granted.

With her help, he undid the rest her blouse and cast it aside, baring her chest. He took a short moment to drink in the sight of her beneath him. She was unfaltering, expectant, but some part of him still felt lecherous for leering at her, so he took the initiative, fondling her chest _gently_, he reminded himself, as gently as he can. Now wasn't the time to forget his own strength. He lavished her exposed cleavage with lovebites and kisses, finally taking a nipple between his teeth and sucking. He felt her hands glide down his back, unfastening the leather strap of his belt before tugging at his tunic. He obliged her, shrugging it off his shoulders. Hopefully, his swift motions didn't make him seem too eager. Of course, he was, but the thought mortified him until Byleth looked to him, smiling while her little doll-like hands traced the contours of his muscles and the jagged lines of old, faded scars. Her cheeks were a little flushed, probably not as much as his, but it soothed him. These subtle reactions served as reminders that the Ashen Demon, an infamous mercenary whose blade claimed so many lives, and Sothis's mortal vessel, was still just a young woman. 

He returned his attentions to her breasts, taking the other pert nipple in his mouth--a silent apology for the moment's neglect. He kissed the space between her breasts, her ribcage, down her navel, right up until his lips rested just above the wispy tie keeping her skirt fastened. He loosened it, certain he frayed the ends a bit. Thumbs looped in her waistband, he peeled the tight fabric down and exposed more glistening, peachy skin. 

He muttered some curse or another under his breath. The tightness of his trousers was getting harder to ignore, but even his lust-addled mind had determined he would be gentle and slow. He didn't want to hurt her. Her bared skin, clear and smooth like porcelain, her proportions so feminine and dainty--by all accounts she looked like a lovely doll, and he had never had the best track record with dolls. They were too small and fragile. Why, as a child, he must have broken at least three of El's finest--

No.

He needed to stop thinking about her. Why was it so hard to stop thinking about her, even with another woman, one inarguably better for him than she had ever been, in his bed? In the back of his mind, he listed off Edelgard's crimes, her cruelty, all that she had taken from him, played over his memories of her trying to kill him in crisp detail and repeated to himself that he did not love her. He loved Byleth, truly he did. Would she resent him for thinking like this right now? Moving on from a childhood crush shouldn't have been this difficult for him. For years, he had been so sure he hated her, and he did. Hated her for taking so much from him, for breaking him, for ruining him, for leaving him all those years ago, for still occupying so much space in his head. Whenever her name danced across his mind, it was like digging open an old wound, one that never properly closed up. There was a difference between healing and bleeding until the blood stopped. Maybe it was too late for that scar to truly heal. 

"Are you all right?" Her voice called him back to the present, monotone as ever, with an edge of lust to it.

"Yes. Er, apologies. Have I done something wrong? Have I hurt you?"

She closed her eyes. "At your side, we have unified Fódlan and won a war. I do not know more I must do to convince you I am not some delicate little belle. I doubt you could hurt me if you tried."

Dimitri offered a lopsided smile in turn. "Love, I imagine this is very unorthodox pillow talk."

"I imagine so. I am a mercenary, not a courtesan."

He barked out a laugh. How did she always know what to say? To dispel the ghosts of the past and the wails of the malcontent dead, ringing in his ears? "No," he challenged. "You are my queen."

She never changed. 

He was so different now. 

Clumsy fingers traced the curve of Byleth's hips downward, almost teasingly, while he leaned to plant a kiss between her thighs, sighing as if intoxicated. He thumbed at her most sensitive spot, a gentle, awkward stroke. Nonetheless, Byleth quietly gasped. Her body squirmed and shifted beneath him, bolstering his confidence. 

"Mmmn," he murmured, the vibrations of his throat sending shivers down her spine. He kissed deeper into her core, tasting her moisture on his tongue until it was just all he could take. His erection throbbed and he sank his teeth into the soft skin of her thigh, and she let out a soft, surprised noise as he readjusted himself overtop of her. 

He freed his demanding cock from his trousers, positioning himself at her entrance, letting himself rub against her wet, hot folds. Was he moving too slow or not fast enough? He looked to her for approval or guidance, and the sparks of affection behind her eyes washed over him--a gentle reminder that the sea could be calming too.

"Byleth," he began, searching for words he lacked the wherewithal to say, so he concluded with a simple, "May I?"

"You may."

He moved to slide himself in, and she met him halfway by bucking her hips against his. She winced, and he fought the rising urge to apologize because obviously, obviously, obviously that was not the thing to do when hilted inside a woman. The sensation of warm, sweat-dampened skin against skin was a potent one, but nothing as potent as having her wrapped around him, warm and velvety. Carefully, he managed his weight, waiting for the strain to fade from her features.

"Ah--you can move," she urged him.

"Are you certain?"

She shifted, locking her legs around his waist. "Do not make me beg, Your Highness."

He sharply inhaled, giving a quick, experimental thrust. In response, she squirmed beneath him, her legs growing tighter around him. A little "ah" tumbled from her lips. His cock twitched inside her. She was not making his restraint easy on him, but she never meant to. Imbued with a bit more confidence and lot more desperate, all-consuming desire, he worked into a steady rhythm, enraptured by the little sounds she made and the way she writhed beneath him.

He reached for her hair, but first one of her hands twined with his--a little gesture that meant so much. Her hands were what had saved him, what guided him back to the light and the warmth he forgot existed. **"I should have known that one day, you would be haunting me, as well," **he had said to her, and she did not so much as raise an eyebrow at what was so clearly the ravings of a madman. She only maneuevered past the discarded blades and the corpses strewn across the cracked stone floors of the monastery and offered him a hand. He did not take it, could not bear the risk of reaching out and grabbing air or the cold, grisly texture of rot. 

Instead, something inside him snapped that day--his composure, perhaps, if it could even be called that. The walls he built around himself. He screamed at her, hurled accusations, spoke of the dead--things he never thought to speak of before had all come spilling out, like she had ripped his lungs open with those two small, impossibly dainty hands he had still yet to touch.

**"I'm glad you're safe**," was all she had offered in return, and he had mocked it for her then, but truthfully, now, all he could think about was how badly he wished he had taken her hand back then. If he had, maybe things would have went much smoother.

She somehow always looked the same as the day she had first lent him her blade--cold, beautiful, untouched by the passage of time and by the ravages of war. They had been the same age when they met, but he had grown battle-hardened, older, scarred, but time had frozen around her.

"Dimitri," came her voice, the call of the sea, and she leaned forward and kissed him hard. Her tongue slid across his lips, and his met with it for parley before he slipped it in her mouth, where the two wrestled for dominance. She gasped as she pulled away, still connected by a string of saliva. Her hips rocked in tandem with his, even as his thrusts became more jagged and restless from his impending release, but she had yet to let go of his hand.

Her free hand outstretched him, sliding teasingly along his chest, running along the sinewy curves of his muscles before finding his cheek. The way she stroked it so gently and admired him so lovingly almost made him feel like he was some small, precious thing, not the austere king he styled himself as, not the murderer and the wretch he had come to believe he was, not the man on top of her now, ravishing her. Next those slender little fingers curled around the fabric of his eyepatch; his other hand came to rest atop hers. Deftly, she slid off the eyepatch, exposing the old, silvery scar, the eyeless socket.

"You're beautiful," she remarked, voice tinged with growing pleasure.

Dimitri began, "I--" but did not know how to follow it up. He only groaned, pecking her lips. Some part of him felt embarrassed, like this was too intimate, but that of course was foolish. Byleth had never shied away from the parts of himself he tried to hide.

"I'm--Dimitri, I--" Her eyes strained closed in the throes of pleasure before she could finish the sentence, his name escaping her lips on a ragged moan. She clenched tight around him, pushing him over the edge.

He tried to stifle his moan by biting his lip, but its shattered edges managed to get past his defenses, much to Byleth's delight. Struggling to catch his breath, another shot of pain coursed through his wounded shoulder, the arm he held himself up with giving out. He collapsed over Byleth, his weight pressing into her. She grunted, but her features were gentle, and her arms wrapped around him.

His face was too close to hers, noses almost touching, and it was all too much to bear. He rolled to his side, though Byleth showed no signs of letting go. Goddess damn it all, when did her eyes stop being the sea and become the very sun?

While his mind debated whether an apology or an expression of gratitude was more appropriate, some overwhelming part of him already formulated its own response. "I love you," he said, voice sounding much weaker than he intended.

"I love you too."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
